A Memory of Light
by Magery
Summary: This is not a kind world. Nor a beautiful one. It is cruel, and dark, and violent. There are shadows on every street corner, and things that go bump in the night. There are heroes, villains, and monsters. There are those who are all three. It is a world toppling off the edge, hemorrhaging everything that once made it good. It is a world in pressing need of Light. (Hunter!Taylor)
1. Spark 1-1

The gangster is still listening to Lung when Taylor drops from the roof and tears out his throat with a knife. It's a quick, clean kill; there's barely a drop of blood on the blade. By the time he hits the ground, she's killed another three. She moves like lightning, all speed and sharp, vicious edges. There's a pistol in her hand now, snatched from one of the corpses she's left behind. It feels like home; like there's something deep within her bones telling her that _this_ is how it should be. A gun, a knife, and nothing to do but kill.

Lung roars, but she ignores him. His flames follow her like a shadow, but she is faster. Bullets skim her skin, but she does not feel them. One man dies to the knife that sprouts through his chest when she is suddenly _there_ , crossing the few metres that separate them with all the sudden viciousness of a thunderbolt . Another takes three bullets to the stomach and a fourth to the head. They are running, now - whether to get away from her, or the steadily-growing Lung, she does not know. It does not matter.

They seek to escape _her?_ It is an affront to a pride she did not know she had. Within her hand, something coalesces, a storm compressed to the size of a fist. She throws it even as she leaps, hurling herself through space and time to close the distance in a way they cannot expect. When it lands, so too does lighting; it arcs out between the fleeing members of the ABB, and they scream in agony even as their skin burns and their hearts stutter to a stop. One survives, but Taylor is already behind him, and it is already too late.

She withdraws the knife, flicking away a few, stray crimson drops. There is something beautiful in the way they fall.

Lung is behind her, a half-second away from smashing her to the floor. But a half-second is all she needs; the world warps as Taylor throws herself backward, disappearing and reappearing so she is behind him in turn. She calls it blinking, because that is how long it takes. Lung spins, too fast for something that big, and she smiles. There is violence in that smile. It is as sharp as a knife.

Each kill has only made her stronger, and now she feels invincible. Power crackles beneath her skin, little sparks of electricity snapping from every one of her non-existent curves. A corona of fire surrounds Lung as he charges her, but Taylor's only response is to launch herself at him, discarding the gun.

It seems stupid. It seems suicidal.

And then the world _erupts_ into lightning.

It shrouds Taylor like a cloak, until she is less a woman and more a storm. Her knife is no longer a blade but a thunderbolt, and she wields it like the physical impossibility doesn't even matter. Lung hasn't even closed half the distance when Taylor slashes upward, and a wave of electricity turns his charge into a stumble as his muscles seize up. It is the smallest possible opening against a regenerator of Lung's caliber, but all she needs is the time it takes him to blink.

She slips through reality until she is directly in front of him, and even though he cannot react physically, suddenly everything Taylor knows is fire. It detonates around him like a solar flare, hot and bright and _burning_. Before, the agony would have been inconceivable.

Before, it would have killed her.

Now, she carves through it with a knife. The flames split around it, and so do Lung's scales. Taylor attacks with the fury of a hurricane and the violence of death, carving deep, vicious chunks in his flesh. Each strike paralyses and rends in equal measure; he loses a hand to one slash, an arm to two, and soon he is without limbs entirely. It will not keep him down for long. But it will keep him down for _long enough._

Her energy is fading, now, but Taylor still has enough strength to punch her knife into his throat, and tear.

Lung's body slumps one way, and his head falls the other.

The last of her power fizzles out, and she is left standing there, surrounded by nothing but corpses and scorch-marks.

This is where Armsmaster finds her.

"Hero or villain?" he asks. It seems like a stupid question to ask a woman standing over a field of bodies, but he has probably recognised that the dead are only ABB and Lung himself. There have been heroes born from greater horrors than this.

"Hero," she says quickly, the fading exhilaration of the hunt making the words almost breathless.

"Then why did you kill them all?" She does not miss the way he does not relax in the slightest at her answer.

"They were going to kill kids."

"Then you should have put them down, but not like this." He seems to believe her, at least. It's a start.

"It was kill them, or let them go. I don't have non-lethal. My powers don't let me," Taylor says, shrugging. "I can slaughter a man in six different ways with a kitchen knife, but I don't know how to throw a punch. And when the fight began... I lost myself."

Taylor blinks, then shakes her head.

"No, that's not right. I _found_ myself."

"You're not doing a very good job of convincing me that you're a hero." Paradoxically, Armsmaster seems less worried now than he was when he first arrived. It's like he knows she's telling the truth.

"Judge me by what I do, then, not how I do it." She pauses. "Sorry, that didn't come out right. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I killed sixteen gangbangers and Lung himself because they were going to _murder children_. That's a victory. If I was a villain, it would be sixteen PRT officers and Glory Girl because they were stopping me from robbing a bank."

For a moment, Armsmaster is silent. "What should I call you, then?"

"Bladedancer." It slips out before she realises what she's saying. Taylor had barely considered a name before now, but she can't take it back. It's a good choice, anyway; the right mix between description and misdirection.

"I'm going to have to ask you to come with me, Bladedancer," he says. "I respect your reasons, and what they say about your morals, but you killed sixteen people and one of the strongest parahumans in the city. As an officer of the Protectorate, and the law, I cannot simply allow you to roam free. You are not under arrest at the moment, but you will be if you resist."

"Where would I be going with you, if I wasn't under arrest?"

"To meet Director Piggot. I expect she would be interested in recruiting you."

"I'm not sure I'm interested in being recruited," Taylor says quietly. "I doubt I'd be treated fairly."

"You do not have a choice." Armsmaster's words are blunt. They fit the man himself. "Either you come with me peacefully, and have a civil discussion with the Director, or I will be forced to arrest you, where you will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. No charge will stick for what you did to Lung, but everything else will. That's sixteen counts of murder, and you have already admitted your guilt directly to me."

Armsmaster sighs.

"Look, I don't like this any more than you do. I agree with you - it is a victory. But I have people I answer to, and a job to do. Don't make me do it."

"If I came with you, and agreed to join the Wards," Taylor says, and there's a flicker of surprise from Armsmaster; maybe he thought she was older, "would you make me a gun?"

"What?"

"I dream of weapons I don't understand. Things I can't replicate. I'm not a Tinker. But I feel like I should be wielding something better than some punk's handgun. Like my hands were made for something mightier. You could even give it non-lethal ammunition; as long as it's a gun, I can use as well as I can use anything. The same goes for a knife.

"So, how about it? I don't resist you, and you make me something that means next time I don't have to kill."

There's something intoxicating about her power. It's the only way Taylor can explain where her boldness comes from. Even against Lung, when he bore down on her like a comet, she felt nothing but excitement. Adrenaline. Like there was nothing in this world she should fear but holding back.

The strangest thing is that Armsmaster seems to be considering her request.

"It would be possible," he muses. "I would have to run it by the Director, but if you are as correct as you believe you are about your power giving you no non-lethal options... there is precedent for a Tinker equipping their teammates. That said, the task could fall to Kid Win instead of me, unless you make a good case. My time is valuable."

Taylor shrugs. "I don't mind. I don't want to fight you, and I don't want to be arrested for murder. What I _want_ is to be a hero. I have nothing against killing, but I don't enjoy it either. It just feels like... something I do, I guess. Like that's what my power is for: killing bad people. If you can give me a way to take them down without having to slip a knife into their throats or put a bullet through their eyes, I'm fine with that."

"I think we can do that," Armsmaster says. "Do you have some way of getting to the Protectorate's headquarters, or do you need a ride?"

"I need a ride," Taylor says, almost too quickly. It's not even entirely from the excitement of getting a ride with _Armsmaster_. There's something in her that sings when it sees his bike. It feels like a half-forgotten dream. All she can remember is freedom. Freedom and _speed_.

"Good," he says. "I would have had to escort you anyway."

He mounts his bike, and the part behind the seat folds and unfolds in a flickering blur, until there's another half-seat in its place. Taylor approaches, almost cautiously, and jumps on. This close, she can see that there are handholds on either side, and she grabs them. The metal creaks ever-so-slightly under her grip.

"Hold on tightly," Armsmaster says. "We will be moving quickly."

"Good."

The bike _accelerates_ , speeding through the streets so quickly that most of the scenery is nothing but a flickering blur. Taylor can't help her laughter. It's wild, and free, and filled with joy. Maybe Armsmaster will think she's a little crazy, but she doesn't care.

Something about this feels right, like she was born to be in motion.

* * *

Director Piggot is the largest woman Taylor has ever seen in person. This is not an insult, nor a judgement: merely truth. But she holds herself like a warrior, and Taylor will respect her for that. There are few prisons worse than your own body. She stares Taylor down with eyes that have lost too much, and though Taylor is not intimidated, she can see where anyone else might be. Twenty years ago, this would have been a woman to fear. Even now, the memory of that strength lends a weight to her words.

"Bladedancer. Tell me why I shouldn't have you arrested and locked away for murder."

Armsmaster had briefed the Director about the situation during the ride to the Protectorate HQ, or so he'd said, so the question does not come as a surprise to Taylor. Nor does the tone; this is a hard woman, with a voice to match.

"I want to be a hero." Start with the truth. Everything else will build from there. That is what Annette Hebert taught her daughter, and it is a lesson she remembers well. "My power doesn't give me non-lethal options. It taught me how to use a knife, and a gun. Nothing else. I'm stronger and faster than normal, but not enough to win a fist-fight with a man twice my size and then take down the rest of his friends. All I can do is stab them, shoot them, or electrocute them. My lightning's lowest setting is 'fatal nine times out of ten', and its highest is 'carve Lung to pieces'. He said he was going to kill children. If I had to choose between potentially going to jail, and not saving them... well, you already know what I chose."

"You have the drive if nothing else," Piggot says. Taylor isn't quite sure whether it's meant to be a compliment or not. "The Protectorate and the PRT exist in part because of capes like you, Bladedancer. People who can't help killing because it's all they're capable of. I'm not going to compare you to someone like Grey Boy, or the Siberian, because you're right - you had two terrible choices, and you took the lesser evil. But it's an evil you could have avoided entirely. If you can kill Lung and sixteen of his gangsters, you could have called the Protectorate and held him off until help arrived. If you want to be a hero, your first instinct can't be violence. You have to do everything you can to avoid it."

She... is right. She is _right_. Though something within Taylor rebels at the thought (at what part, she isn't sure), she could have done better. She'd used her invisibility to sneak up on the gathering; she could have used it to lead the gangsters in circles. With her knife and a gun, she could have ripped into Lung to enrage him without killing him. Drawn him into a chase. It would have been easy; her power makes her as slippery as a shadow. She wouldn't have needed to throw her arcbolt or call her arcblade. But Taylor let the fight come before anything else, and even if she walked away with her enemies dead and her wounds already healing, that isn't the point.

Killing Lung and his soldiers was a good thing. There was no denying that. But it could have been a _great_ thing, and if Taylor knows nothing else, it is that her power feels like it is meant to be great. It is in the way it hums through her bones and arcs through her veins; the way it fills her chest with something like hope.

"You're right," Taylor says, once she's finished thinking it through, and for a moment Piggot almost looks surprised. "I made a mistake. I don't regret what I did, but if I could go back and change it, I probably would. I could blame it on my power, but it's not guns that kill people, right? It's whoever uses them. Just because all it gives me are tools for violence doesn't mean I have to use them that way. I should know that; I asked Armsmaster about whether or not joining the Wards would mean he could make me a weapon that was non-lethal."

"You can only use guns and knives, is that what you said?" Piggot asks, though Taylor feels like it isn't really a question. More the Director's way of gathering her thoughts. "I assume you've tested that, to be so certain about it."

"Yes. Anything from a butter knife to those Bowie knives they sell in the hunting store, I can use like I've been doing it my whole life. Then I went into an antique store and pretended to be inspecting one of their swords - when I picked it up, all it felt was old. The thing about guns is only an assumption. I went through four handguns and one shotgun in that fight, and I'd never held anything like them before that. But I'm pretty sure I'm right; it's a gut feeling, I suppose."

The Director nods. "If I were to allow you into the Wards, yes, we could arm you so you could fight without killing. We'd probably be obligated to."

Taylor notes the 'if'. There is something more Piggot wants from her, it seems, than just an admission that she could have done better. But what?

When in doubt, go for the throat. It's the same instinct that governs her in battle, that tells her the only way to lose is never to fight. It's not something she should listen to, not after the previous conversation, but Taylor rebels against the thought of backing down. She's been backing down for a year and a half. No more.

"With all due respect, Director, you need me. We need _each other_. I don't want to go to jail, and you don't want the gangs to win. I'm strong. Not the strongest, but I took down Lung. How many people can say that? The Empire Eighty-Eight outnumber the Protectorate and the Wards by themselves. I've probably killed more people than some of their capes, but I guarantee I've _hurt_ far fewer. I just want to help. All you have to do is let me."

"Director," Armsmaster says, speaking for the first time since they arrived, "I believe Bladedancer could be an asset. She is less volatile than some we have recruited, even considering her demonstrated capacity for violence. Between strict restrictions and guidance, she's right - we can use her."

Piggot's lips are thin, but her tone is even. "Your opinion is noted, Armsmaster."

She steeples her fingers together, and looks at Taylor. There is something heavy about the way her gaze rests on Taylor's face, even through the scarf-and-bandanna 'mask' she is yet to remove.

"How old are you?"

"I turn sixteen this year."

"Then here is what will happen. You will join the Wards on probation, under a specific set of conditions I will decide upon shortly. Breaking any one of them will result in your immediate arrest and subsequent prosecution for the murders of sixteen people. Your probation will last until you turn eighteen and join the Protectorate. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Director," Taylor replies. What else is there to say? She does not like bending to authority that is not her own - it feels like wrongness, deep within her bones. But every action has its consequences, and if this is the price she has to pay for being a hero, then she will pay it.

"Good. For now, you can leave. Armsmaster will escort you from the building, but you will return here tomorrow morning at nine o'clock, with your parents or guardians. Consider that the first condition of your probation. When you arrive, tell whoever is on the reception desk that you're here for a private tour with Hannah. They will understand. We will finish the paperwork and everything else at that time, and then you can meet your new teammates."

 _Oh._

Suddenly going to jail was looking a little more tempting than having to tell her father that not only did she have powers, but her first night out trying to be a hero led to the deaths of sixteen gangsters, Lung himself, and her being subpoenaed into the Wards.

"My Dad doesn't know I have powers. Does he have to?" The words slip out before she can control them.

"Yes," the Director says. "We cannot recruit a Ward without parental permission, as much as it would make our job easier."

Taylor is not looking forward to that conversation. She would rather fight an Endbringer, she thinks. At least that way her death would be glorious.

She sighs. "I'll be there."

"I will hold you to that. Goodbye, Bladedancer."

"Goodbye, Director."

Armsmaster turns to open the door, and Taylor follows him. She loses most of the walk out of the Protectorate HQ to her thoughts; to her fear of how Danny will react to what she is and what she's done. She bids Armsmaster farewell without really noticing anything he says, only realising after he's gone that she should have probably asked for a ride back out into the city. Oh well. The journey will give her time to think, and she can move far more quickly now than in her civilian guise.

The rooftops blur as Taylor covers them in an alternating sequence of run-blink-run. It would be exhausting if she could get tired any more.

* * *

Taylor slips through the window of her room, dropping to the floor with a dull thump. A few seconds later, her invisibility fades, and she straightens, pulling off the scarf-and-bandana combination that serves as her mask. Her father isn't awake; she can't hear the television, and the silence feels tired. About the only thing that doesn't is Taylor herself, really. Danny Hebert works harder than his body can endure, all for a life that does nothing but beat him down, a house that's falling apart, and a daughter who doesn't deserve it.

No. That's not true. She refuses to allow Emma to get to her. Or Madison. Or Sophia. Just because they've spent a year and a half trying to screw her over in every possible way doesn't mean she'll let them win. She is Taylor Hebert, and her existence is _worthy_. It's a statement whose truth she feels all the way to the marrow in her bones. It might be her power talking—she's slowly losing track, at times, of where the separation ends—but she can't help but believe it anyway.

She walks out of her bedroom, the knife she doesn't remember drawing spinning through her fingers. It's a nervous tic she's picked up without knowing why, but she doesn't mind right now. It's a reminder that not everything her powers have given her has to be used for killing. Even if it's something as simple as making a blade whirl a figure-eight through her hands without once scratching her skin.

The knife is still in her grip when she reaches her father's bedroom. Probably not a good look. She sheathes it with a flourish as beautiful as it is unnecessary, and opens the door, flicking the light on as soon as she can reach the switch.

"Dad?" she asks. "Are you awake?"

His answer sounds like the cross between a zombie's death-rattle and a vacuum cleaner. So not yet. She gives him a couple more seconds, and asks again. This time, his reply is at least in English.

"Huh? Taylor?"

"I need to talk to you. It's important. And urgent."

He rolls over to look at the clock. "At this hour?"

"It can't wait."

"Okay," he says, and his tone is understandably wary. "Just give me a couple of minutes to get up. We can talk in the living room."

"Alright," she replies. "I'll see you there."

Taylor makes her way to the living room, seating herself on one side of the table. She lays her knife on the desk next to her; it hasn't been cleaned yet, so the blade is stained with crimson. Looking at it fills her with a sense of fierce satisfaction. It shouldn't. But it does anyway. She wasn't lying when she told Armsmaster her power felt like it was meant for killing bad guys.

When Danny Hebert enters, he notices the knife before anything else. Taylor can see it in the way his eyes widen and his body tenses, ever-so-slightly. But she cannot allow him to say anything; this is a conversation that will happen on her own terms, or not at all. She won't be able to get through it any other way.

"Dad," she says, and her voice is as sharp as steel. "I'm going to tell you a lot of things tonight. A lot of things you won't like. But please, _please_ , let me finish before you say anything. I don't think I'll be able to otherwise."

"You sound just like your mother," he says. It's the first time he's directly mentioned Anette Hebert in five months. "Right before she told me about Lustrum."

He doesn't say anything else, and Taylor takes it as an invitation. So she starts to speak. She tells him about the bullying, about Emma, about the truth of the locker. She tells him about her powers - calls lightning to her fist and turns invisible in her chair.

Then comes Lung. It's surprisingly easy to talk about; Taylor has always loved to read, loved the English language, and it serves her well. She describes how it felt when the wind was at her back and she was streaking across the rooftops, like she was the crest of some great, inevitable wave. She punctuates the fight with gestures, even using her knife to demonstrate a particularly tricky kill before she realises what she's doing.

By the time she talks about fighting Lung directly, her voice is filled with pride. He had been a mighty foe, even with how one-sided the battle had actually been. She'd won only because she'd spiked her power higher than he could match. Given a minute or two more, and she would have needed her arcblade and the strength it gave her just to survive long enough to escape.

It was as she'd told Director Piggot. Just because she'd go back and change what happened if she could didn't mean she regretted what she'd done.

That pride falls away when it's time to tell her father about Armsmaster, about Piggot, and about the fact she has to join the Wards or spend the rest of her life locked away for sixteen counts of murder. Danny Hebert is a Dockworker, and a lifetime of that combined with the continued obstinacy of the Mayor means he isn't the biggest fan of 'the Man'. Though she suspects any distaste he might have for what was being forced upon her pales in comparison to his opinion on what she'd done to deserve it.

"So, uh, yeah," she finishes awkwardly, "we need to be at the Protectorate HQ by nine o'clock in the morning tomorrow, well, today actually, so I can sign up properly and become a Ward."

"I… I can't deal with this right now," he says. His tone is a mixture of incomprehension and anger and a hundred other things. It's the voice of a man who has suddenly been thrust into a world he no longer understands. "I need time to think."

"Okay." There's not much else to say. "I'll see you in the morning?"

Her father doesn't reply.

She didn't expect him to.

Taylor returns to her room, and it's only when she flops down on the bed does she realise she was still holding her knife. It thunks into her mattress, and she notes idly that it took more effort to stab into the foam than it did to cut a man's throat. There's something wrong with that, she thinks, but she's not sure what.

She pulls the blade out, and drops it on her bedside table, right next to the pair of glasses she hasn't had to use in months, before rolling over to stare at the ceiling. Her body isn't tired in the slightest—she's not sure if it _can_ be—but her mind is exhausted. It feels like it's been weeks since she just sat down. It's a stupid feeling, because five minutes ago she was sitting in a chair, but the sentiment remains. It has been a very long day.

Taylor closes her eyes, and within a couple of minutes, she is asleep.

When she dreams, it is of shrieks in the dark, and a brave woman's last laugh.

* * *

 **Hello, friends. It's been a while since I posted something that wasn't a one-shot, but here we are. So! Hello and welcome to _A Memory of Light_ , a story whose title, as it happens, I did not simply rip blatantly off the Wheel of Time. Hopefully, you won't find out why until later. Unless you're the sort of person who can guess a plot twist within the first thirty words, in which case, _teach me_.**

 **This story is also available-primarily so, in fact-on the SpaceBattles Creative Writing forum (my username over there is the same as it is here), where you can find the second and third chapter, as well as a couple of omake, and a few pages of discussion. I will be posting a new chapter here every time I upload the latest chapter to the _A Memory of Light_ thread. **

**Anyway - I hope you found this first chapter mildly interesting, and that you'll stick around for the rest!**


	2. Spark 1-2

The next morning dawns too bright and too early for Taylor to appreciate. She rises with the sun, but her father is already awake; she can hear him in the kitchen. When she makes her way down, he does not acknowledge her, but there is nothing in his bearing to suggest it's out of malice. It seems more likely that he simply does not know what to say.

That impression is reinforced when he is the first one to break the silence.

"I think we should head in earlier than nine; it would make a better impression, even if we end up having to wait."

It's a good point.

"Yeah, I agree. What time will you be ready to leave?"

"You're the teenager. I should be asking you that."

It seems her father has decided the best way to deal with the situation is to ignore it when possible. Taylor is perfectly fine with that. She cooks herself—and Danny—breakfast, even though she doesn't get hungry any more, and the two of them sit down to enjoy the meal. It's nothing fancy, given that she's basically boiled a few eggs and made a couple of slices of toast, but she likes the sense of normalcy it brings.

The rest of the morning passes quickly, and soon they are bundling into Danny's car and driving through the city. It's not quite early enough to avoid most of the traffic, but there aren't as many people on the road at seven thirty than there will be even half an hour later. The car ride passes in silence; her father makes no effort to start a conversation, and Taylor certainly doesn't either.

Soon they have reached the Protectorate's HQ. Or, at least, the ferry terminal that lets those without the ability to fly get there too. Even at this hour, there are a few people waiting alongside them. Taylor breathes a sigh of relief - they won't stand out nearly as much as she thought they might. The ferry is surprisingly swift, and Taylor wastes no time in leading her father over to one of the reception desks the moment they arrive.

"Hello," the receptionist says, "what can I do for you?"

"Uh, hi," is Taylor's eloquent reply. "I'm, that is, my Dad and I are here for a private tour with Hannah?"

"Ah, you're early," the man replies. "If you'll just wait here for a few minutes, I'll see if she's available now."

As it happens, it turns out that she is. The receptionist ushers Taylor and her father through a side door, where they are met by, of all people, Miss Militia.

"Bladedancer, yes?" she asks. Her voice is strong and steady. "If you'll follow me, I can take you to meet the Director."

"My name is Taylor," Taylor says, because she doesn't want her father to be reminded of what she is every time someone addresses her. "This is my Dad, Danny."

"Nice to meet you," Miss Militia says, offering a handshake. Her grip is firm, even to Taylor. That's good; Danny respects a firm handshake. He's often complained about how meetings with the Mayor and his staff sometimes feel like he's walked into a wet noodle convention.

The hallways pass as quickly as they did the night before. Taylor is lost in her thoughts a second time, though for different reasons. She's not worried about meeting with Director Piggot, or the terms of her probation, or all the paperwork she may have to fill out. In fact, she's not even that worried about her father's reaction: she's already told him everything.

No; Taylor is slowly coming to realise that once this is all over, she'll have to meet the Wards. Her fellow teenaged capes. And she will have to… _socialise_ with them.

For the second time in twelve hours, she wonders if going to jail might actually have been a better option.

It is thoughts like that which occupy her mind to the degree that she doesn't even notice when they reach the Director's office. It's only when Miss Militia opens the door and ushers her inside that she realises they've arrived. Her father follows the two of them through. There are two seats in front of Piggot's desk, but neither Taylor nor Danny make to sit in them. Not without invitation, at any rate - that would send the wrong impression.

"Take a seat," the Director says, and it is only then they do so. "Since there was no opportunity last night, let me introduce myself. I am Director Emily Piggot of the PRT ENE."

"Danny Hebert," her father says, "and this is my daughter, Taylor."

"Very well. I assume Taylor has briefed you on the situation?" It's not exactly a question.

"Yes, she has." Her father's tone is absolutely blank.

"Good." Piggot reaches into a drawer, and pulls out a thick stack of paper. "This is the official documentation describing the rules, conditions, privileges, and other associated minutiae that comes with joining the Wards. It also has a section specific to Taylor, detailing the strict terms of her probation.

"To summarise, for her first three months, she will not be allowed out on patrol at all; instead, she will be on monitor duty. For the next nine months after that, she will not be allowed to patrol without at least two other Wards or a Protectorate member accompanying her. Taylor must obey all orders they give her while she is with them. It is possible that this time will be reduced for good behaviour, but that is not a guarantee.

"Once that period has elapsed, she will be allowed to conduct the standard duo patrols, but will still be under her partner's command. Taylor will remain a subordinate to her fellow Wards until she graduates to the Protectorate, which is when her probation expires. The only exception to this is Shadow Stalker, as she is also on probation.

"There are other conditions, but these are the most relevant at the moment. There may be others in future: Taylor is yet to undergo power testing, so we don't know how restricted the use of her abilities outside of life-threatening situations might be. Your daughter, Mr. Hebert, has an extremely lethal power, and we cannot allow any more situations like last night to happen."

Her father frowns.

"People can't chose their powers, I thought," he says. "It sounds a little like you're blaming her for having them."

"No, parahumans don't pick their powers," Piggot replies, "but they do choose what they _do_ with them. I have already had this discussion with Taylor. She made a decision to use her powers, and that decision had consequences. Part of the goal of her probation is to teach her how to make better ones."

She lifts up the contract, and offers it to Danny. "If you'd like to read the full document, you can do that now while Miss Militia takes Taylor for her mandatory power testing."

"I think I should." That is his business voice. Whatever he thinks of the situation, he's going to make sure he understands it thoroughly. Taylor would smile, but it's the most involved he's tried to make himself in her life since her mother died. Part of her wonders why it had to take superpowers and murder to get them to this point.

"Very well then. Miss Militia?"

The heroine gestures for Taylor to follow her as she opens the door.

"What does power testing involve?" Taylor asks, once they're in the corridor. "Apart from the obvious, I guess."

"Basically, you tell us what your power is, what it does, and then demonstrate it. Our scientists have a whole array of special machines and devices, some of them made with Armsmaster or Dragon's help, and they use those to record everything. For example, there's a 'pressure needle', or something like that, which is used to test whether or not you deserve a Brute rating based on your durability."

"What if some of your powers are variable?"

"In what way?"

"Well, I'm tougher than an ordinary person, though not by a lot. But my powers let me enter a sort of 'supercharged state', I guess, where I think I'm at least twice as tough as before. It doesn't last for very long, and it gives me other benefits too, but it let me endure Lung's fire when it would have normally killed me."

"You wouldn't be the first," Miss Militia says. "Lung himself had a variable Brute/Blaster rating, and what you're describing sounds a little like how Battery's power works, except you have a higher baseline. The ratings aren't as important as they're sometimes made out to be on PHO, anyway."

"Don't they describe the threat level of someone's powers, though? I thought that would be a big part of how you choose to deal with them." It's an honest question; Taylor is sure Miss Militia knows what she's talking about, but people have always made a big fuss about how strong a cape's power is.

"They do, but it's not a be-all and end-all. I can give you a few examples. You know Leet, right? His Tinker power, to the best of our understanding, is the ability to build anything, though only once. The key word being _anything_. In the hands of someone else, that might have made them one of the best Tinkers in the world, up there with Hero and Dragon. But Leet's official rating is Tinker 3, because he's not anywhere near the threat he could be.

"The most striking example, though, is Jack Slash. Did you know I have a higher Blaster rating than he does? He's limited to knives, and can only project their edges in a straight line. Even sufficiently well-made body armour will defend you against his power. But ask yourself: who do you think is more dangerous? Me, or him?"

It's a difficult question. She doesn't want to offend Miss Militia, but on the other hand, it's _Jack Slash._

"He's survived twenty years in a group that loses, on average, at least one member every six months, with a power ostensibly weaker than mine. It's a little counterintuitive to use a villain on his level to make a point, but it's something most new heroes don't understand. Lung once fought Leviathan and _drove him off_ , but you reportedly took him down in a couple of minutes. Low threat ratings don't necessarily mean that people aren't dangerous."

Taylor decides she likes Miss Militia. The woman is honest, and her advice is genuine. There's something in the way she speaks that makes it seem like she _cares_. There's no judgement in her voice when she speaks of Lung's death.

"I understand," Taylor says, because she does. It's not just intellectual, either; it's a truth she can feel all the way to her bones. It's odd, because the total sum of her experience as a cape is about fifteen minutes. Yet there is something within that holds up cunning beyond all things. It tastes like the locker, when she busted open the door and fell to the floor. Victory in despair.

Miss Militia nods, but does not reply, and soon they have reached what is apparently their destination. The door is just like any other, but it opens into a room the size of her school's gymnasium, filled with pieces of equipment that look like they just came out of Star Wars. There are a few people bustling around inside, and one of them comes over to greet Taylor and Miss Militia.

"You would be Bladedancer, yes?" he asks. The man isn't dressed like a mad scientist, but he certainly has the hair for it. "I am Dr. Alphonse Smith, and I will be in charge of testing your power."

"Okay," she says, "what do you need me to do?"

"First of all, you tell us everything you know about your power. That will give us a clearer idea of where to begin."

"I'll stick around to watch, if that's all right with the two of you," Miss Militia says. Dr. Smith looks like he might protest, but there's something in the way the heroine looks at him that makes him reconsider. Taylor certainly doesn't have a problem with her staying: it's _Miss Militia_.

So Taylor starts to speak, as the scientist pulls out a tablet and begins to take notes. She describes what she knows about her durability, her strength, her speed, and her regeneration. He looks a little bored, but that changes when she mentions her arcbolt, her arcblade, her teleportation, and the fact she can also turn invisible, as well as her apparent mastery of guns and knives.

"That's an interesting list of abilities," he comments. "You're what we would call a grab-bag cape, which means you have a whole set of minor powers, except what you've said about your 'arcblade' doesn't strike me as particularly minor at all. But I suppose it fits more under the broad category of lightning. You are certainly nowhere near the first to have an elemental theme."

He's wrong, but Taylor feels no need to correct him. Better to have everyone believe her powers revolve around lightning as opposed to killing. She might even have thought so too if she didn't feel it in her soul. Her powers were weapons. No – it was more than that. They _made her_ into a weapon. One designed to slay evil and nothing else.

Being made a weapon by her powers is nothing special; most capes have combat applications, as far as her general knowledge serves her. But she doubts there are many that feel so innately _good_. Even after what she's used them for.

Especially after what she's used them for.

"Well, anyway, we should start with the simple tests first. If you'll come this way, we can get an accurate measure on your physical capabilities. I'm not sure how we'll test the changes you experience when you use your 'arcblade' – your electricity might interfere with our equipment. Something for later, I suppose."

The machine for testing her durability is just like what Miss Militia described. Taylor places her arm in a pair of clamps to hold it steady, and with an almost-silent whir, something that looks like one of those grabbing hands from the 'grab a toy' games at the arcade latches on to her. It extends a needle, whose tip rests against her forearm.

"The needle will keep pressing down with more and more pressure until it draws blood, or breaks. From what you've said, though, the latter probably won't happen, so this should be over pretty quickly," Dr. Smith explains, as he presses the button to activate the machine.

At first, Taylor doesn't even feel the needle itself; she's more focused on the sense of _draining_ its pressure invokes within her. She's never had the time or the right equipment to properly test how her durability works before now. The drain accelerates as the needle pushes down harder and harder, and then something in her mind splinters at the same time as the needle finally penetrates her skin. It's nothing like a headache, or even pain. Just her power telling her that she's finally taken too much damage for it to prevent.

"A forcefield, then," is Dr. Smith's comment when she mentions that out loud. "That's quite common."

The wound the needle left, minor as it is, heals quickly. There's no real way to test her regeneration: they can't really just keep cutting her over and over to see how it works. But Taylor tells Dr. Smith what she knows about it anyway: how it healed her eyes, how she no longer scars, and that the only restriction on it she's found is that it doesn't work while she's actually being hurt. There seems to be a period of time in between when she takes damage and when she starts to heal, which is interrupted if she gets hurt again.

She's glad her father isn't here, because there might be some uncomfortable questions about how, exactly, she knows that. Especially since she already told him about the bullying.

Her strength testing is also fairly uncomplicated; all she has to do is lay down under what's obviously a tinkertech weight set, and lift until she can no longer support the mass above her. It takes even less time than her durability testing, which matches up with what she'd discovered on her own: she's strong, but not amazingly so, not in the way someone like Glory Girl is.

They put her on a treadmill, next, though it's probably a little more complex than the ones you might find in a gym. Dr. Smith tells her to run, and so she does. She can feel the treadmill accelerate under her feet, and she accelerates with it, until finally it reaches a speed that has her flat-out sprinting to keep up with. The process takes significantly longer than testing her strength or durability.

"That might take a while," she says when Dr. Smith asks her to keep running until she gets tired. "I'm not sure if I can actually _get_ tired any more. I still need to sleep, but my body's never come close to exhausted no matter what I do."

"Very well; in the interests of not being here all day, we'll take your word for it." His reply is accompanied by more notes scribbled on his tablet.

Next up is her invisibility: they test how well it actually hides her (across the entire electromagnetic spectrum), as well as its duration, and its 'cooldown'. She's noticed that after breaking her invisibility, no matter how long she stays in it, she has to wait about ten seconds before she can use it again. Dr. Smith confirms this; it is, in fact, _exactly_ ten seconds and not a millisecond more.

The first time they run into problems is when it comes to her arcbolt. When she's in the safe area for testing Blaster powers, surrounded by forcefields to protect everyone else, she throws it… and nothing happens. It fizzles out the moment it touches the floor, and though Dr. Smith manages to get a few energy readings from it, they're not particularly definitive.

Fortunately—and unfortunately, from a certain perspective—Taylor actually knows what the issue is.

"It needs targets," she says. "It doesn't do anything unless there's somebody in its range."

"Well, we can't exactly go and find any volunteers," is the scientist's reply, "so we'll have to move on. There was enough information in the passive readouts for the analysts to provide it with a nominal rating, at least, though it won't be very accurate."

They don't bother with her ability with guns and knives, either; not at the moment, anyway. There is a gun range in the building, which Miss Militia will take her to at a later date, as well as multiple sparring rooms, but it's not particularly urgent. There's nothing that remarkable about limited weapon mastery. After all, it doesn't give her some esoteric 'never miss' ability, or reality-warping sword skills: she's just better at aiming, and knows how to use a knife.

They test her short-range teleportation (her blink, as she calls it) next. Strictly speaking, she actually has two different types. One has a fixed range of ten metres, and can take her in any direction, but not through solid objects. It operates on a 'cooldown' of sorts – she has two blinks available to begin with, and each time she uses one, she has to wait five seconds before it comes back. The timer, as it turns out, is separate for each blink: using one doesn't affect the other's timer, so she can use both in rapid succession.

The second type has a much shorter range, only a couple of metres, and doesn't work unless she's using it in conjunction with a knife. It, too, has a cooldown of exactly five seconds. Unlike her grenade, it doesn't require a living target, but she does have to be intending to attack something (in this case, a couple of dummies) in order to activate it, and it can only take her _toward_ her target.

Apparently strange and arbitrary restrictions on power use are not in any way unusual to Dr. Smith. He doesn't raise an eyebrow once during the process of figuring out all the different rules her blinks operate on. Then again, he strikes Taylor as that sort of man: someone who's spent so much time studying how powers work that even if he can still become interested, he can't exactly be _surprised._

Of course, just because it's not new to him doesn't mean it's not new to Taylor. After all, one thing she didn't realise about what gets nicknamed her 'blink strike', when she used it before today, is that it charges her knife with electricity. Enough electricity, as it turns out, to be instantly fatal to an ordinary human even if the knife-wound isn't.

And she can use it every five seconds.

For some reason, Taylor thinks there might be a new condition of her probation when Director Piggot receives the results of these tests.

"Well, we're almost done," Dr. Smith says. "From what you've told us, we just need to figure out how to test your 'arcblade'. If you'd step back into the forcefield area, I'll try and get some passive readings so we know what equipment we can actually use on you."

"You'll have some time to figure it out afterward," Taylor says. "I did some experimentation of my own, and it takes about five minutes from when I run out of energy to maintain it until I have enough to activate it again."

"Then we'll test that timing too."

Taylor carefully does not mention her arcblade charges more quickly by killing people.

She walks back over to where they'd abortively tested her arcbolt earlier, and waits until Dr. Smith signals that he's activated the security measures.

Taylor breathes in, slowly and deeply.

In the moment she exhales, she becomes the thunderbolt. Lightning crackles around her skin, and power flares deep within her flesh. She can't help but move, even if it's only to sway slightly in place. Her body is a storm, and it's all she can do to keep herself constrained. Taylor wants to _fight_ , but there is no battle here, and so she trembles with impotent violence.

All too soon, it is over. The last of her charge slips away, and she is left herself once more.

"That was interesting," Miss Militia says; she's been content to watch most of the time, occasionally interjecting a comment here or there. "You looked like you were on edge the whole time. And you couldn't stop fidgeting."

"I was. It's really hard to stay still when I'm like that." Taylor doesn't mention the other urges it gives her. That probably wouldn't be a good idea.

"I can see why you call it your arcblade," Dr. Smith interjects. "Your knife is still there underneath all that electricity; I could still detect the metal. But it's more proof that powers don't pay attention to the laws of physics, because what surrounds it is, for all intents and purposes, a literal bolt of lightning. Just one that happens to be shaped like a blade, and that you can apparently hold in one hand."

He shrugs. "Oh well, I've seen weirder."

After more tests, a few in which Taylor actually gets to unleash both her melee and ranged attacks on some dummies, Dr. Smith delivers his findings: none of his equipment will be able to survive close enough to the storm snapping around Taylor's skin to actually test her durability with her arcblade active. The sheer volume and intensity of the electricity that courses through her is not something it's built to handle.

"I guess you're done here," he says. "There's nothing else we can do right now – you might as well leave."

"Thank you," Taylor replies.

"I'll forward the results to the Director. I assume she wants to look over them as soon as she can."

"You would be right," Miss Militia says. "Thank you for your help, Alphonse."

Taylor follows her out the door, waving an awkward goodbye to Dr. Smith.

"We should probably get some lunch, before we go back to see Director Piggot. I'll show you where the canteen is, if you'd like to join me."

"I'm not really hungry," Taylor says, because it's true. She doesn't get hungry any more. In fact, she's pretty sure she doesn't even need to eat or drink.

"Fair enough. I'll take you to her office now, though it might be a little while before she's ready to see you. Once you're finished up there, I think Armsmaster will be introducing you to the rest of the Wards."

"On second thoughts, I could do with something to eat."

Miss Militia laughs. It's a nice, soft sound. Nothing like the way people usually laugh at Taylor.

"Very well. Come on, it's this way."

She makes no mention of Taylor's obvious about-face.

Lunch with Miss Militia, as it turns out, is… nice. Taylor learns that her name is Hannah, that she likes chicken sandwiches, and, unlike Taylor, doesn't like apple juice. It's exceedly strange to be so casually engaged in conversation with a genuine heroine, one that Taylor has always respected, but apparently this is her normal nowadays.

Almost too soon, it's time to return to the Director's office. Hannah leaves her at door, explaining that it will be Armsmaster who takes her to meet the Wards.

"Come in, Bladedancer."

Taylor does so. Her father is no longer there, but it's obvious the contract has been signed. She is now, officially, a Ward.

"I've read the reports Dr. Smith has forwarded to me on your powers," Piggot begins. "Our analysts haven't had time to officially assign ratings to you, but if it matters, you'll probably have them in Mover, Brute, Blaster, Thinker, Striker, and Stranger. More importantly, however, I am introducing two new conditions of your probation thanks to the results."

Taylor is entirely unsurprised.

"First of all, until further notice, you may not use your 'blink strike' on any living target unless given explicit permission by a superior officer. If you've forgotten, that includes all of the Wards excluding Shadow Stalker, as well as any Protectorate member. Secondly, you may not use your 'arc blade' at all, under any circumstances, unless you have been directly instructed to do so by the leader of the Wards, a member of the Protectorate, or if you absolutely require the increased durability in order to survive. You will be required to justify any uses that fall under the last category."

Taylor is saved from having to reply by Armsmaster, who knocks perfunctorily before opening the door.

"Armsmaster," Piggot says, "good, you're here. It's time for Taylor to meet the Wards."

* * *

 **And here we are, with the second chapter.**

 **Unfortunately, you can't hyperlink words in a story on this site, so I must tell you here that the words 'never miss' were meant to direct you to kjhovey's Year 1 Montage on youtube. If you don't know who he is, then don't worry about it, the reference isn't that great; though if you're ever bored, it's worth watching.**

 **Anyway. Hopefully this was worth your time!**


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